


Flower of Scotland

by Historical_Muse



Series: Robin of Sherwood/Blackadder [2]
Category: Blackadder, Robin of Sherwood
Genre: Crossover, Gen, phonetic Scottish, tortuous jokes & word play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Historical_Muse/pseuds/Historical_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackmail is such an <em>ugly</em> word...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please bear in mind that this fic was written back in the late 80s/early 90. :¬)
> 
> I had Robbie Coltrane very much in mind when I wrote one particular character. I don’t think it’ll be hard to spot which one!
> 
> _No_ offence is intended to any Scottish readers!! :¬{

 

The miasmic stench reached him even in the depths of sleep.  The cloying reek of animal and vegetable decay worked its way insidiously into Gisburne’s nostrils, filling his dreams with the sweet, nauseating aroma of rancid matter, ancient tombs, wriggly larva, and dead things.

Filled with inexplicable horror, Gisburne struggled his way up through layers of consciousness and awoke, sweating and gasping, in the half-darkness of early morning.  Although the foul smell remained still in his nose it was less marked now, and he assumed that it had been nothing more sinister than the drains creating that disgusting dank odour.  Neither could he see anything in the room, so he lay back again in his bed, relieved that the hideous creature that had swum before his terror-filled eyes was nothing more than a dream-phantom.  With a huge sigh of relief, Gisburne settled back down once more for sleep.

Within seconds, the stench had returned – only this time it was much, much worse.  Gisburne’s eyes flew open at once; the room seemed darker and the aroma of decay directly under his nose.

And then he let out a shriek of terror as his eyes focussed on the foul, misshapen face that now peered into his: what monstrous denizen of Hell was _this_? Was the Sheriff sleepwalking _again_?

“Mornin’, my lord!” the hideous face said cheerfully.  “It’s a lovely day an’ there’s a nice bit of breakfast waitin’ for you down in the Great ‘All, so get down there as soon as you can – only the Sheriff wants to ‘ave a little word with you.  All right?”

“Yes, yes – thank you, Baldrick,” Gisburne croaked, feeling his olfactory nerves screaming in agony at the strength of the (thankfully) unique and distinctive scent of the Sheriff’s servant.  It was at times like these that Gisburne regretted the fact that Baldrick didn’t have a best friend who could have had a quiet word in his ear about his distressing personal hygiene problem.

As his manservant helped him to dress, Gisburne tried to guess as to the possible nature of the Sheriff’s talk.  Did this perhaps mean that he was about to be sacked? He discarded this as unlikely, since he and the Sheriff – a man, in many ways, after his own heart – were on passably good terms.  Perhaps Robert de Rainault was about to return to the post of Sheriff of Nottingham? As far as he knew, de Rainault had not yet succeeded in bringing to justice the outlaws Derek and Rodney de Trotteur of Peckham Rye, the task for which he had been (Gisburne supposed temporarily) absented from Nottingham; if he had, then Gisburne surmised that de Rainault would be returning.  On the other hand, if he hadn’t been successful, then he’d still be returning – so Gisburne was no better off after his cogitations than before.

Once washed, shaved and dressed, he rushed along to the Great Hall.  Here he found Sir Edmund Blackadder – Baron of Brent Knoll and Weston-Super-Mare and, in Robert de Rainault’s absence, the Sheriff of Nottingham – pacing pensively up and down whilst Baldrick, and the Sheriff's other personal servant, Percy, patiently stood by; Baldrick contentedly stuffing a chicken with what looked worryingly like a dead rat and Percy attempting to avoid the snapping jaws of the mastiffs who were trying to steal bits of his master’s breakfast.

“You wanted to see me, my lord?”

“Ah, yes, Gisburne, I did – come and break your fast with me.” The Sheriff gave his steward permission to be seated at the board.  “Baldrick, kindly remove your hand from that chicken’s backside for just a moment and make up a platter for Sir Guy, if you would.  Preferably before you clean your hands on your underbreech-oh, never mind – just get on with it.”

“Er – by your leave, my lord Sheriff, I’ll – er – see to my own food,” said Gisburne hastily, as Baldrick began to pick over the food on the table with his bare hands.

“What? Oh yes, of course,” nodded the Sheriff.  “I quite understand; a hand that has been inside both a chicken’s bottom and Baldrick’s breeches is not the one that I’d choose to handle _my_ food either.  And Percy – perhaps you ought to feed those dogs properly instead of fannying about trying to stop them from eating my breakfast.”

“C-certainly, my lord,” stuttered Percy.  He looked over the food spread out on the board.  “Shall I offer them a little leg, my lord? A little breast? Or a little thigh, perhaps?”

“Yes, yes, Percy, whatever you like – as long as you don't take all day about it.”

“So –” began Percy timidly, “y-you don’t mind if I give them a little of the chicken then, my lord?”

“Sorry, Percy? I thought you were referring to yourself.  Well, a little chicken thigh, leg or breast, or your own – it’s up to you.  Those dogs are so stupid they probably wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anyway.  Just don’t come running to me when one of those damned dogs bites your leg off.  Now then, Gisburne.  Where was I...”

“You said that you wanted to see me, my lord,” replied Gisburne chewing awkwardly through a mouthful of food.

“Ah, yes, Gisburne; I did, didn’t I.  Well, Gisburne, to begin with, I have a little teaser for you.”

Gisburne blanched.  “Oh no! Not that little red-haired serving wench with the unusually shaped birthmark again, my lord!”

“No it is _not_ , Gisburne!” retorted Edmund testily.  “Mind you, I know _exactly_ what you mean about the – er – lady in question.  However, my little poser in fact runs _this_ wise.  See if you can guess as to what it is I am describing.”

“Oh good,” said Baldrick excitedly.  “I love riddles! How many words are there, my lord?”

“Ooh, yes!” squeaked Percy, waving a chicken-leg enthusiastically.  “Is it a book? A play? A poem?” He shook the chicken leg and looked rather blank for a few moments.  “ _Another_ book?”

“Percy,” said Edmund acidly, “there are times when you are as welcome as a mighty blast from Beelzebub’s bottom.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Percy delightedly.  “Thank you very much, my lord!”

“Actually that _wasn't_ a compliment, Percy,” Edmund informed him as the servant’s face took on a familiar, lugubrious expression.  “I was merely stating the blindingly obvious.  You know,” he continued, narrowing his eyes at both Percy and Baldrick, “ - there are times when I wonder why I don’t just sell the pair of you to a travelling fair as The Stupidest Men In All Of Christendom.” He turned his attention back to his steward.  “Now then.  What am I describing, Gisburne – enormous; grey; wrinkled; long, prehensile nose; protruding tusks; small, piggy eyes; huge, flapping ears; personal hygiene problems at either end...”

“Your mother, my lord?”

“No!”

“Um – Baldrick, my lord?”

“ _No_ – although size apart, the comparison stands, I grant you.  No, Gisburne.  I am describing an elephant.”

“Why?”

“Because I am comparing myself to one.  And do you know why?”

“You’ve started having these urges to charge things, roll naked in mud, and leave funny little steaming piles in the passageways, my lord?”

“ _No_ , Gisburne! Although...the rolling naked in mud does rather sound like fun...and the little steaming piles can be blamed on Baldrick...” He shook himself and then cleared his throat.  “No, Gisburne, the reason why I am comparing myself to an elephant is that there are – _certain_ similarities between us; namely, the enormous nether-parts and the fact, that apart from anything else, elephants are renowned for their great memories.”

Gisburne stared blankly at his master.  “ _So_ , my lord?”

“So, Gisburne, it is with some regret that – despite my fabulous memory, I have to announce the fact that not only have we been at home to Mr Cock-up, but Mr Cock-up has knocked at the castle gates, stormed and entered them, and taken possession of all that lies within.”

“I’m - sorry, my lord – I’m not quite with you...”

“Well then, I’ll give you a little clue, no? We have the King of Scotland coming to visit us, have we not?”

“Why yes, my lord.  But not for another month.”

“Quite so.” Edmund turned and glowered at Percy.  “Percy, when _exactly_ did you tell me that His Royal Tartanness was coming to stay here in Nottingham?”

Percy screwed up his face and spent the next few minutes in turgid calculation.  “Um – the 22nd of – um – May, my lord?”

The palm of Edmund’s hand made swift contact with the back of Percy’s head.  “It’s the 25th of April, you pea-brain.”

“B-but that's tomorrow, my lord!” gasped Gisburne.

“Yes, Gisburne: it’s tomorrow.  And this is what comes of allowing Percy a brief moment of responsibility.  At a time of great, personal weakness, that week when I was stricken with Nadger’s Whoop, I allowed Percy off the leash – and allowed the bluebottle of incompetence to fly right up my nose.  You see, Gisburne, what Percy omitted to tell me was that although he had indeed received some – _rudiments_ of education, he was not terribly hot on the matter of months and numbers.  Indeed, during the period when those very subjects were being taught, Percy here was being beaten half-senseless by a mighty-thewed Turkish eunuch for failing to get to grips with the principles of (a) basic hygiene, and (b) not baring one’s bottom to the Baby-eating Bishop of Bath and Wells without due care and attention.”

“So what does all this mean, my lord?” enquired Gisburne, still relatively clueless and eyeing Percy’s hang-dog expression with not a little empathy.

“Gisburne, what this means is that very shortly you and I are going to be piloting a small, low-slung marine vessel up Turd River without any means of propulsion – and it’s all thanks to Percy!”

Suddenly Gisburne remembered something else.  “It’s much worse than _that_ , my lord.  I suppose you _do_ know to whom the King of Scotland is related, don't you?”

“To some _other_ homicidal tartan-clad, caber-tossing in-bred yobbo, I presume,” retorted Edmund.

“No, my lord.   Even worse.  He’s related to Robert of Huntingdon, my lord.  His uncle, I believe.”

“Robert of Huntingdon? Who’s he, then?” And then he remembered.  “Oh my God! Robert of Huntingdon!  _Robin Hood_!"

“Quite so, my lord.” Gisburne pounced on one of the letters that were strewn under a pile of bread rolls.  “And there’s worse to come, my lord.  He says here in this letter that he particularly desires to meet with his nephew during his visit, as he has heard rumours that his nephew has been disinherited because he’s become an outlaw.”

“And if he finds out that his nephew _is_ an outlaw and that he _has_ been disinherited and that _I've_ been trying to have him killed, it’ll be window-tapestries for all of us! What are we going to _do_ , Gisburne?”

“I have a cunning plan, my lord,” interjected Baldrick smugly.

“How cunning _is_ this plan of yours, Baldrick?”

Baldrick beamed proudly.  “My lord! It is a plan as cunning as something that is very cunning, my lord.”

“Well – all right, Baldrick – I’m game for anything; the Lion of Scotland is not a man to have on the wrong side of you unless you have suddenly lost the will to live – which incidentally is what may well happen to _you_ , Baldrick, if this plan of yours is as pathetic as I fear it might be.  All right.  I pray God that I will live to regret this, but tell me what this cunning plan of yours is anyway.”

“Well, my lord,” said Baldrick craftily.  “My cunning plan is this: why don’t you make a pact with Robin ‘Ood an’ tell ‘im that you’ll do somethin’ nice for ‘im, if ‘e agrees not to drop you in the moat with all the other little turds and doesn’t breathe a word to ‘is uncle about you tryin’ to chop ‘is ‘ead off.”

Edmund paused, thought for a while, and then took a deep breath, “Baldrick, that is without doubt the most stupid plan that it has ever been my misfortune to hear.  It is illogical, impractical, deeply flawed...and it might just work.  Right, Gisburne.  Have my carriage prepared at once and bring your own horse.  You, Percy, and Baldrick will go into Sherwood and fetch Robin Hood back to the castle.  Then I’ll have a quiet word in his ear and see if I can’t get us all out of this.”

“ _Us_?” said Gisburne suspiciously.

“You’re in this too, Gisburne – right up to your neck.  Don’t you forget that _._ You’re the one who’s spent more time trying to wipe Robert of Huntingdon from the face of the earth than me, after all – but as Sheriff, it ill behoves me to be seen doing the same thing.  William of Scotland could make life pretty damned difficult for me, too, if he so chose.  And if _I_ go down, then you bastards are going down with me.  Got that?”

“Yes, my lord,” chorused Gisburne, Baldrick and Percy obediently.

Despite not having been able to eat as much breakfast as he would have liked, as he swept off to carry out the Sheriff's orders Gisburne permitted himself a small smile:  it was getting to be quite like old times!

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Are you _sure_ you’re doing the right thing, Robin?” Tuck asked anxiously.

“Don’t worry about me, Tuck,” grinned Robin.  “This could turn out to be very interesting! Besides, I have a cunning plan up my sleeve.”

“ _How_ cunning exactly?” asked Marion.

Robin grinned even more.  “My plan is so cunning that you could pin a tail on it and call it a weasel!” he replied.

“Come on, wolfshead!” barked Gisburne, who was feeling very uncomfortable by now with the eyes of the outlaws not exactly making him feel welcome in the greenwood.  “How much longer are you going to pither about for?”  
  
"Don't worry about me, I'll be all right," Robin assured the others.   "And besides, the Sheriff has _no_ idea what I've got my sleeve, has he!" 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Edmund greeted his outlaw guest with an uncharacteristic warmth which at first rather disconcerted Robin.  “Ah! My dear friend!” he exclaimed ingratiatingly.  “Come in, come in, come in! I am _delighted_ to be able to make your acquaintance once more, Bob – I _can_ call you ‘Bob’, can’t I – Bob?”

“Of course – _Eddie_ ,” replied Robin.

“Oh, ah ha ha ha,” laughed Edmund stiffly.  “I like your style, er – Bob, my – er – my old chum.  You see, Bob, it grieves me that the first time we met should have been in such ill-starred circumstances.  We’d already been travelling for many miles and for many hours when you and your friends apprehended Baldrick, Percy and myself in Sherwood.  Consequently, I was not in the best of tempers and might well have said things – which I now regret.  I am so pleased, therefore, that we are now able to meet on a more convivial occasion.”

“And I also,” replied Robin.

“Indeed,” continued Edmund, “I have been most anxious to meet you.  I have for some time been keen to have some chat with you.  And now you’re here!” He gesticulated to the board spread liberally with the finest foods and wines at his disposal.  “Er – perhaps you would care to partake of a little food and wine?”

Robin turned and looked at the groaning board.  “But _Eddie_! I am – _overwhelmed_ by your generosity and kindness.  To think that you’ve gone to all this trouble – just for _me_! This is a meal fit for a _king_ , let alone an earl’s son turned outlaw.  And there is _far_ too much here for both of us, even if we were to invite Baldrick, Percy, and my dear old friend Sir Guy of Gisburne to dine with us.  May I therefore request that at the end of this discourse, the remains of this fine feast be distributed amongst the poor and starving of Sherwood?”

At first Edmund was gobsmacked, but he recovered quickly, and gave another of his wooden laughs.  “Ah ha ha ha ha ha! But of _course_ , Bob! Ah ha ha ha! After all, you know, Bob, I so admire the work that you have been doing amongst the rural and urban poor of Sherwood.  I strive _constantly_ to emulate your example.”

“Oh, _Eddie_! I am at a loss for words!” sighed Robin, his voice trembling.  “You flatter me so, dear friend.  Please – I beg of you to leave me be for a while, lest my shameful, unmanly tears lessen my standing in your eyes.” Robin had to admit to himself that he was really rather enjoying this.

“Oh, there’s no need to feel uncomfortable, Bob!” Edmund assured him quickly.  "We’re all chums together here, aren’t we!” He glowered at Percy, Baldrick and Gisburne.  “ _Aren’t_ we!”

“Oh-yes-my-lord!” chorused Percy, Baldrick and Gisburne in wooden unison.  “We’re-all-chums-together-here-aren’t-we! Ah ha-ah ha-ah ha-ah ha-ah ha!”

“Think of it!” gulped Robin, his lower lip quivering and his face full of an emotion that hovered between tearfulness and hysterical giggles.  “Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham – the best of chums! Who would ever have thought it?”

“Who indeed, my dear Bob, who indeed! And – er – it’s – er – precisely _because_ we are such good chums that – er – I feel that I can make so bold as to crave a boon of you, my dear chap!”

“Name it, and it shall be yours,” said Robin expansively.

“Well – er – it’s just that we have the King of Scotland coming to visit us tomorrow, and –er – ”

“The King of Scotland! He’s my uncle, you know.”

“Indeed, and – er – that’s why I was hoping that perhaps you could help me out of – er – a rather tight spot.  You see, it so happens that in his letter to me informing me of his visit, he makes a specific request that you should also be present, since he has heard rumours that you have become an outlaw and have thus been disinherited.  Now obviously, this makes things a little difficult – ”

“ – Because I _am_ an outlaw and I _have_ been disinherited.”

“Er, quite.  And if he finds out that his nephew is an outlaw and that I’ve been trying to have him executed for treason – er – you can see that it's going to look rather bad for me, can’t you, Bob?”

“Of course, Eddie.  I understand.  So what is it that you’d like me to do?”

“Well, Bob.  I was wondering if perhaps – if I arranged for you to have some clothes made as befitted an earl’s son and had a chamber prepared for you here - you would meet your uncle and – er – ”

“ – Pretend that everything’s normal and that I’m not an outlaw?”

“Well – er – yes, that’s right.  You know, make small talk about how much you hate wolfsheads and outlaws, and how you’re sick of hearing the bloody peasants whingeing on all the time because they’re poor and they’re hungry, and how they damn well ought to get up off their fat backsides and get a job like everyone else.  That kind of thing.”

“I understand perfectly, Eddie.  And I’d be only too happy to help you out.”

“You _would_?” For the second time that day Edmund was gobsmacked.  “Oh, but that’s _wonderful_ , Bob! Ah – ah ha ha ha ha ha! Isn’t that wonderful, everyone!”

“Yes!” came the wooden chorus once more.  “It- _is_ -wonderful-isn’t-it! Ah ha-ah ha-ah ha-ah ha-ah ha!”

“After all,” continued Robin magnanimously, “you’re only doing your job, Eddie.” He pretended to be reading from a parchment.  “Post Title: Sheriff of Nottingham.  Duties to include extorting money from barons and peasants, killing people who don’t agree with you and actively seeking the death of the outlaw known as Robin Hood.  Anyone else would have done the same.”

“Er – yes, quite,” replied Edmund.

“However,” Robin continued, “I must point out that if I do this for you, in order to save your skin, then you must do something for me in return.”

“Oh!” squeaked Edmund, terrified lest Robin’s demands be either embarrassing or expensive.  “B-but of _course_ , my dear fellow! Of course, of course, of course, of course, of course, of course, of course, of course, of course, of course, of _course_! Name your heart’s desire and we shall endeavour to fulfil it! Ah ha ah ha ah ha ah ha!”

“Ah ha-ah ha-ah ha-ah ha!” chorused his staff obsequiously.

Robin appeared to be deep in thought for a few moments, but then he shook his head.  “Alas, for the moment I can think of nothing that I might ask from you.  But grant me a little space and I shall no doubt be guided in my choosing.  Now – if I may be permitted to return to Sherwood?”

“Indeed!” agreed Edmund, a little breathlessly.  “Percy, Baldrick, see that this banquet is packed away so that my friend here can take it back with him to his friends in the forest.  In the meantime, Robin-er-Robert-er-Dobbin, if you would just pop in and see my tailor – Gisburne will show you the way – I can get you fixed up with some suitable attire.  Now your uncle will be reaching us in the first hour or so past noon, so if you could get to the castle as soon as possible tomorrow morning, I’d be very grateful; the guards will know to let you in unmolested.”

“My thanks to you, Sheriff!” Robin gave an elegant bow.  “I look forward to our further acquaintance – not to mention spending more time with my much-loved old chum Sir Guy of Gisburne! Good day to you all!”

“Good day to you, fair master,” chorused Percy and Baldrick as they assisted Robin towards the exit with his burden of uneaten food.

“Pity all the food’s gone,” sighed Gisburne, once he and the Sheriff were alone.  “I could just eat some of that roast suckling pig now.”

“Never mind that, Gisburne! We’re off the hook! I’ll be able to entertain William the Lion without the slightest qualm! Unlimited supplies of whisky, here we come!”

As he watched his master gleefully rubbing his hands, Gisburne found himself wondering (a) if the plan would work and (b) if it didn’t, what chance Edmund might stand against a ferociously under-fed killer haggis... 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	2. Chapter 2

"Whit is it aboot the bloody English? Whit in God’s name is _wrang_ wi’ you peepul?”

Those Wickham villagers who had not already fled for their lives to the forest now cowered in terror as the bellowing continued.

“Huv none o’ youse ivver met a man wi’ tartan trews an’ a funny foreign accent before? C’maun – where the hell are youse all goin’ _noo_?”

“P-please, sir,” wobbled a small voice out of nowhere.  “Please, sir...”

“And who might you be, wee yin?”

“P-please sir, Hengist Minor, sir...” quavered Hengist Minor, wishing with all his heart that the village’s big chaps hadn't gone and got themselves captured by the Sheriff’s men earlier in the week.

“Well noo, Hengist Minor.  D’ye ken who Ah am?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Well, I am William the Lion.  King of Scotland and all Her sovereign lands.  An’ Ah’ll no’ dae anythin’ to hurt any of youse, Ah promise – if youse’ll just all come back here again!”

“W-what is it that you want from us?” enquired Hengist Minor’s mother cautiously, eyeing the stranger with due suspicion.

“Ah’m oan ma way tae visit Sir Edmund Blackadder, who Ah believe is the new Sheriff of Nottingham.  Unfortunately, ma men and I appear tae ha’ lost our way.  Could ye no’ direct us tae Nottingham?”

“It’s-it’s _that_ way, sir,” whimpered Hengist Minor, pointing leftwards with a dirty finger.

“Ma thanks tae ye, Hengist Minor.  A nice wee fella ye are tae, tae be sure.”

“W-we thought that you were the Normans come back to attack the village,” said one of the other villagers.  “Only we’ve already lost most of our men to the Sheriff’s soldiers.  They’re imprisoned in the dungeon of Nottingham Castle.”

“Well, that’s life,” shrugged William philosophically.  “Ye tak’ the rough wi’ the smooth.”

“But we _always_ get the rough of it!” wailed one villager, in an ear-molesting whine.

“Well dae somethin’ _aboot_ it then!” roared William as he and his men rode away.  “God’s Teeth! That’s the _trouble_ wi’ ye bloody English – no damn balls, any of ye!”

Editor's Note:  _We’re talking big, here.  We’re talking “outside brick-privy and no mistake” big.  Imagine Little John crossed with Brother Tuck (and then some) with black eyes, black hair and a handsome potato of a face and you are somewhere near to imagining William of Scotland.  Dressed in fine clothes, riding a magnificent horse, and accompanied by a troupe of his men, it was actually no wonder that the Wickham villagers had been so over-awed_. 

_...As were Edmund and Gisburne, for that matter, when they and Robin met the King and his party in the courtyard.  The Scots swept in dramatically, with war-cries of “Glen Dochart!”, “Glen Rothes!”, “Glen MacBeatha!”, “Glen Darroch!”, “Glen Campbell!”, "Glen Morangie"!"and “Glen Hoddle!” amongst others echoing around the stone walls and terrifying dozing wall-sentries.  William himself was yelling many fearsome imprecations; and as he bore down on Gisburne and the Sheriff, they both had a moment of fear when they thought that he might run them down – and were thankful when he merely halted before them.  The man’s sheer presence was illustrated by the fact that when seated on his horse he towered over them all – and seemed not to be lessened in height in any way when he dismounted._

“Robert!” William swept Robin up into a warm hug.  “Look at you – all grown up an’ a fine man, now! It’s so good to see you, lad.  Are you well?”

“I am indeed, uncle.” squeaked Robin, none too comfortable with his breath literally being squeezed out of him.

“And how is your father?”

“Well, uncle, well.  He sends his regards to you.”

“Well and good, well and good,” boomed William, dropping Robin to the ground as Edmund heaved a sigh of relief.  Robin just winked at him.  “Sir Edmund!” William then swept Edmund into a bear hug that left the latter also gasping for breath.  “So pleased to meet you.”

“Did you have a good journey?” squeaked Edmund, trying to get his breath back.

“Passing well, Edmund, passing well.  We got lost in Sherwood, but thankfully we managed to obtain directions in one of the villages.  However, the people were a trifle afeared of us – it seems that you have a great number of their men-folk in your dungeons.”

“Ah,” nodded Edmund.  “You must have been to Wickham.  A rebel village, my lord.  We have to be careful.  Erm – forgive me, my lord, for saying so, but – well, it’s your voice.”

“Indeed?” William was puzzled.  “What is it that perturbs you?”

“Well – it’s just that a few moments ago you were yelling Heiderahordero heidraball Scots wha’ hae och whuisht Doctor Finlay Doctor Cameron Tannochbrae Brigadoon the noo the noo ye ken ye ken and such-like.  And yet _now_ you sound – well, quite _different_.”

“Indeed, indeed, indeed!” chortled the big man.  “We always like to do that on our way down here.  Frightens the shite out of the English something wonderful!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Is there anything in particular which brings you down to England, my lord?” Edmund enquired over a hearty meal in the King’s honour.  “Only since the ‘73 Rebellion you haven’t been exactly popular with the Plantagenets, so I take it that you don’t intend meeting with King John!”

“Ach, indeed not! After all, I was captured at the Battle of Alnwick and _imprisoned_ for my deeds!”

“So how is it that you are here now?”

“Oh, they won’t admit it, but I escaped!”

“How?”

“In disguise!”

“But that’s _remarkable_ , my lord! And how were you disguised?”

“Ah, yes – but you see, that’s the most remarkable thing of all! I was dressed as a nun!”

“A nun?” boggled Edmund in disbelief.

“Aye! A nun! An’ I was _totally_ inconspicuous! I was visited by a group of devoted clansmen who were pretendin’ to be Holy Sisters visitin’ me in order to pray for my soul; they sneaked in a nun’s robes for me an’ then sneaked me out again – right under my captors’ very noses! Think of that!”

“I am,” replied Edmund dryly.  “A twenty-stone nun on the run must have blended into the Northumbrian countryside quite nicely...”

“Actually,” William continued, “I’ve really come to see my nephew Robert here and to pick his and your brains.  Well, you see, one of the things I’m interested in is the possibility of encouraging rich nobles to come up to Scotland for weeks at a time and take in the pleasures of our hospitality and the beauties of our countryside.”

“You’re talking about tourism?” Edmund gawped.  “In _Scotland_?”

“And why _not_?” demanded William tetchily.  “Once things are a bit more settled up there we’ll need something other than raiding the Border Country and scaring the hell out of the Geordies to keep us occupied.  There’s no future in rape and pillage, you know.  And I’m talking _up-market_ tourism, too – the splendours of Edinburge and Glasgu – Northern Christendom City of Culture it is this year, you know.  Oh yes, we’re aiming for a better class of visitor; no more of your Vikings and sundry Scandinavians, thank you very much – it’s not all tacky tartan dish-clouts and caskets o’ shortbreid noo, ye ken.” He turned to a rather short man standing beside him.  “Isn't that right, Malcolm!”

Malcolm, a barrel-chested young man of indeterminate age with spiky wheaten hair, a beard that practically covered his entire face, huge brown eyes, and a blob for a nose merely growled at them, and Percy asked to be excused.

“Terrific chap, Malcolm,” William explained.  “Or Malcolm of MacBane, to give him his full title.  _Wonderful_ man.  Doesn’t say a lot.  Fierce as a lion, tough as old boots, and the finest set of teeth in the Highlands.”

Malcolm of MacBane bared his teeth obligingly and Percy turned a little green.

William then turned to a tall, thin, pleasant-faced, and grey-haired man on his left.  “Oh, and before I forget, this fine gentleman here is my gillie, John.  He also acts as my game-keeper and helps me when I go hunting – so I tend to call him John Stalker!” Here the King dissolved into hearty laughter at some private joke, whilst Edmund and the others thought it politic to join in.

“Are you thinking of perhaps extending the tourist industry to include those other than nobles?” enquired Gisburne, once all the chortling had died down.  “The richer lower classes, for instance.”

“Weeeell, I have considered the possibility,” William admitted, “but would it be worth it?”

Gisburne nodded.  “It _might_ be.  Except that I’m not terribly sure that many of them know that Scotland _has_ a king.  And so I doubt if any of them could actually name you – whether your name is William, or Alexander, or...”

“Ach, Bill, Alex – Fifi Trixie-bell – those bloody Saxons ken bugger all about Scotland so they'll never ken the difference! As far as _I’m_ concerned, they can call me what they like – so long as they come up to fair Alba and spend their money, have a damned good time, and enjoy themselves enormously without frightening the natives or tearing the place to pieces.  Now you can’t say fairer than that!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 “Now _there’s_ an idea, Gisburne,” mused Edmund, once Robin, the King, and all the King’s Men had been merrily dispatched to their sleeping places.

 “My lord?”

 “Suppose we take His Royal Hugeness out hunting tomorrow...”

 “An _excellent_ idea my lord.  It would certainly keep him from talking too freely with his nephew.”

 “Yes, and it’ll kill a bit of time, too.  You’ll have to have a few words with his ghillie though.  What was his name again? Ghillie – ghillie –”

 “– Ossenfeffer katzenellen bogen by the sea-ee-ee-ee-ee, my lord?”

 Edmund arched an eyebrow.  “Was that meant to be – _amusing_ , Gisburne?”

 “Well it made _me_ laugh, my lord.” Gisburne replied, somewhat hurt that his one and only joke had fallen down on its arse and died.

 “Yes, well _you’d_ laugh at those terribly embarrassing riddles with double entendres that the Saxons keep coming up with.  You know the kind of thing – ‘My lord keeps me between his thighs/And pops me out for a surprise’ – which always turn out to be about vegetables.  I can’t help feeling a little concerned about a race which considers vegetables which have grown into the shape of male genitalia the height of sophisticated comedy.”

“That’s Life,” shrugged Gisburne.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 “I _think_ ,” said Edmund over a mug of mulled wine, as he and Gisburne soothed their aching limbs in a hot bath, “that the hunt went rather well, don’t you, Gisburne?”

Gisburne lifted his arm to raise his mug of wine to his lips, whimpering softly as the pain of strained muscles in his shoulders stamped down quivering nerve endings and beyond.  “It _was_ something of a success, my lord.”

“And what about when we came upon those peasants hunting the King’s deer, eh Gisburne, eh?  _Eh_?” chortled Edmund in delight.  “That was a real godsend – William thought his birthday had come round again rather early this year.  I’m glad to see that _some_ things never change, no matter what country you’re from!”

“No, my lord!” agreed Gisburne.  “Mind you, it was poor old John Stalker that I felt sorry for.”

“Yes, he wasn’t exactly happy about having those peasants shot, was he! Even after we explained that it was common policy here, he wasn’t keen.  God, how I hate these bloody do-gooders! What was it old William said now...ah yes! ‘Noo John, how many mair times dae I have tae tell ye - I don’t care _whit_ your feelin’s oan ma policy are! Remember: if you see any outlaws, _shoot tae kill_!”

“How many did we bag today, my lord?”

“Ah – let me see, now.” Reaching over the side of the tub, Edmund picked up a bit of parchment and began to read.  “Ah, yes.  Twenty-five pigeons, two dogs, one insomniac owl, fifteen magpies, and a poacher called Dennis.  Oh yes – and the three peasants who came to complain about the noise.  No, Gisburne – not a bad haul at all!”

Edmund gave another contented sigh and then settled back in the tub with his mulled wine.  Life was beginning to look rather sweet again.  Even Gisburne’s presence was marginally more bearable. 

“ _EDMUUND BAACKAADDERRRRR_!”

The bull-like bellow sent a fine spray of mulled wine from the lips of both Edmund and Gisburne, and a loud yelp from Gisburne as his master’s dropped ale mug bounced off an unwisely raised knee.

“Blaackaadderrrrr! Ah want a word wi’ ye – _noo_!”

Edmund disappeared under the water.  “Tell him I’m not here, Gisburne!” he commanded damply.

“But my lord!”

“That’s an _order_ , Gisburne!”

“Where is he?” demanded William, striding in through the door and strutting majestically around the chamber as though he were a magnificent prize bull.  “Ah want tae talk tae yoo, Eedmuund,” he crooned – rather threateningly, in Gisburne’s opinion.

“H-he’s not here, my lord,” stammered Gisburne, spotting the stream of bubbles from his master’s mouth beneath the water at roughly the same time as the King did.

“Well Ah hope that’s not _you_ ,” remarked William in a slightly less booming voice as he peered over the rim of the barrel.  “Mind you, we had venison for supper an’ that always makes _me_ windy.” Suddenly the Scottish King’s mighty fist disappeared beneath the water, and Gisburne gave a terrified squeak – just as the King dragged a dripping Edmund up by the hair from beneath the water.

“Ah ha ha ha! I – I was just looking for the soap, my lord, ah ha ha ah ha...”

“Well Ah hope that’s _all_ you were lookin’ for,” replied William with narrowed eyes.  “Ah’ve heard the stories aboot some o’ youse chaps – an’Ah ken all aboot Richard bloody Coeur de Lion an’ his – quotes – close personal _chum_ Blondel.”

“No, no,” Edmund assured William nervously.  “Gisburne and I are both totally normal red-blooded chaps who like nothing more than getting rat-arsed and talking about girls, aren’t we, Gisburne!”

“Oh yes, my lord,” affirmed Gisburne hastily, suddenly finding the soap on a rope immensely fascinating.

“Well Ah should bloody hope so,” muttered William.  “Ah didn’t come here tae talk tae a bunch o’ French tarts.”

“Ah yes,” broke in Edmund quickly.   “What _did_ you want to talk about?” Suddenly he realised something – and his fear drained away.  “Just a minute.  You’re talking in that bloody silly voice that you use for scaring the living daylights out of the Saxons.  Now I don’t care what you do to the English – because the odious little bastards, with their continual whining, deserve all they get.  But I’m of _noble_ birth and you won’t get away with talking to _me_ like Lady MacBeth: save that for the peasants!”

“Ach, I’m sorry: I just get carried away.  But I _do_ want a word with you,” William added ominously.

“What about?”

“It’s about something _I_ told him, my lord.”

As one, the gazes of Edmund and Gisburne flew towards the door just as Robin entered, followed by Baldrick and Percy making apologetic noises.  Suddenly Edmund could see the dung-beetle of disaster clambering smugly towards him.

“And-and what-what was that?” Edmund enquired squeakily.

“Och, Robert here has told me _everythin_ ’ – ye wee rascal you, Eddie baby!”

“ _Eddie baby_?” whimpered Edmund. 

“All that stuff you were telling me about how you hated the Saxons and how you wanted to wipe out that rebel village of Wickham,” chuckled William in his bluff, rather attractively cheeky way.  “You’re just a naughty wee boy, aren’t you, Edmund Blackadder! Robert’s told me the _whole_ story!”

“Has he...” Edmund was torn between panic and glaring at Robin’s rather smug expression.

“All that rubbish about hating the English – it’s not true at all! You’re just a big softy! Robert’s just told me about how you were intending to release all the Wickham villagers in the dungeons!”

“I am?” Gisburne kicked Edmund under the water.  “I _am_!” Edmund corrected himself.  “Er – yes, that’s right, I am.”

“Och, _Eddie_!” The King biffed Edmund playfully on the shoulder with one enormous fist and sent him spluttering under the water.  William fished him out again with an apology and then continued: “You really had me believing all that nonsense about you hating the peasants, you know.  But then Robert told me that ever since you became Sheriff you’ve halved their tax bills, and given free food to them every quarter-day.  And best of all, in my honour, you are going to give them a free banquet and release all those villagers from Wickham who were accidentally arrested the other week.  I mean – _Eddie_! That’s the most incredibly warm-hearted and socially aware gesture that I’ve heard of in _many_ a long day.  I’m proud of you, Eddie _baby_ – and I’m so pleased to have been able to make your acquaintance!”

He pumped Edmund’s hand with a vengeance, clapped him – a little less vigorously this time – on the shoulder, and let out a glorious, booming laugh before heading towards the door.

“Well Eddie, I can’t stand around here chatting all day.  We’re leaving on the morrow.”

“Y-you are?” said Edmund shakily.

“Och, yes – I’ve got some firm bookings for my Live-like-a-King-for-a-week-in-a-real-Scottish-castle-at-a-very-reasonable-price package from some of the lords and nobles and such richer lower-class folk as I met during the hunt today.  Plus, I’ve got a few tentative enquiries to deal with, so I really must get back up to Scotland PDQ.  Lots to do, lots to do! Are you sure I can’t tempt you to a few weeks yoursel’s?” Gisburne and Edmund feebly shook their heads.  “Well, never mind – Robert here knows where I live, so if youse ever change your minds, you’ll know where to find me! Anyway.  Must be off now – I have _loads_ of packing to do!”

He swept out of the chamber like a ship in full sail, closing the door with a sweep of his cloak.  Edmund turned at once and glared at Robin.

“I thought you’d _forgotten_ to think of something to ask me for!” he snarled accusingly.  “Instead, you’ve got me promising to free the Wickham rebels and giving them free food! Well thanks very much, you do-gooding little bastard!”

“Now now,” admonished Robin with a grin.  “Temper temper.  _There’s_ gratitude for you! And how could I forget your offer? After all, as you said yourself when we first met: nothing’s forgotten, Eddie baby – nothing is _ever_ forgotten.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Well, there he goes, Gisburne.  All twenty-five stone of prime Scottish beef of him.”

“He wasn’t unpleasant company after all, was he, my lord,” Gisburne observed wistfully.

“Indeed not, Gisburne.  He may have been built like the keep of the average Welsh castle, but beneath all that he was just a big pussy cat, really – only at least fifteen hundred times the size, of course.  In fact, Gisburne, I’ll rather miss him.” Edmund sighed and looked fondly in the direction of the disappearing figures.  “Oh flower of Scotland,” he said wistfully.  “When will we see your like again?”

“I dunno, sir,” Baldrick interrupted.  “But ‘e’s left you a little present.”

“Well what _is_ it, Baldrick?” demanded Edmund impatiently.

“I dunno, sir – but it ain’t ‘alf got sharp teeth an’ a vicious nature, my lord.”

Edmund looked beneath the lid of the large shaking box that Baldrick was holding – then snapped backwards and shut it with a clatter.  “The vicious little bastard!” he roared.  “It tried to bite my nose off!”

“Well, you must’ve offered ‘im a very tempting target, my lord,” suggested Baldrick innocently.

“There’s a note on the box too, my lord!” exclaimed Percy.

“So there is,” nodded Edmund, pulling the note away from its mooring.  “’To Eddie baby, love Bill Scottus’,” he read.  “’PS – don’t forget to feed the Cairn Terrier.”

“Wot’s a Cain’t ‘urry yer?” Baldrick wanted to know.

Edmund peered nervously into the box.  “Well, Baldrick – it’s small, round, shaped like a dumpling and has sturdy legs – oh, and also hundreds and hundreds of rather sharp teeth and powerful jaws.  I wonder what on earth he gave me _that_ for?”

 _< Hmm,>_ thought Gisburne with more than a slight grin.  _< I wonder what chance Eddie baby will stand against a ferociously under-fed baby killer haggis...>_

THE END


End file.
